Venerable New Yorker film critic Pauline Kael is often misquoted as having said she couldnâ€™t believe Richard Nixon won the 1968 presidential election because she didnâ€™t personally know anyone who voted for him. This sentiment has long been deployed by conservatives as a symbol of Northeastern liberal out-of-touchness.

Itâ€™s September and school is back in session, which means Iâ€™m a frequent flier and again wearing slip-on shoes to get through security easier. I was thinking about Ms. Kaelâ€™s statement, and of availability bias when one of the TSA agents in Milwaukee blurted Â “you’re not going to vote for Obama now are you?” He laughed after he said it, but only to indemnify himself. It struck be as strange that he would pick me, coming from New York, to needle. He must have noticed the box clipping I tote around of a Chia Obama I found under the seat of a rental van 4 years ago, though I have it as a good luck charm, not a political symbol. As far availability bias, not only can I not name a colleague in Brooklyn who voted for John McCain in 2008, Iâ€™m not sure I know anyone there who knew anyone else who didnâ€™t consider the McCain-Palin ticket as anything more than fodder for Lorne Michaels. Yet, over 50 million Americans disagreed. And it appears one of them may work in security at General Mitchell airport in Milwaukee.

Really?

Last Tuesday in my Cedarburg, WI studio the furnace maintenance guy barreled in as I was prepping panels. Though it was 79 degrees my father-in-law had called in a pre-emptive strike against what he thinks will be the â€œmost severe winter on record.â€ Funny, because everyone in New York seems to think this yearâ€™s winter will be even warmer than last â€“ which was one of the warmest on record â€“ due to the effects of global warming. For the record, I believe in global warming; however, I also believe that many now tend to forecast weather with politics instead of meteorology, hoping itâ€™s warm in January if only to rub salt in the eyes of those who they see as apologists for unregulated industrialization. And, of course, vice-versa â€“ I tend to believe my father-in-law is personally willing on a cold winter so he can show all the hippies in Massachusetts that the sky isnâ€™t falling.

Anyway, he sent the furnace guy to my studio to make sure everything was ready for the coming ice age. And without provocation and for means of introduction while we shared semi-intimate space together, he blurted, â€œDid you watch that convention last night, (referring to the DNC) Crazy stuff, huh? If we donâ€™t get Obama outta there soon, some shitâ€™s going to hit the fan.â€

Iâ€™ll never reveal where I personally stand on politics, but you can be sure that if am ever invited to a dinner with your family I won’t kick off the exchange by asserting my opinions about religion, politics or sex.

The only possible explanations for furnace dudeâ€™s remarks are: 1. That heâ€™s incredibly tactless, or 2. Heâ€™s so insulated from anyone who would find what he said unreasonable that he considered his remarks as safe as any platitude about the weather, or 3. My father-in-law coached him to try to figure out my politics. If youâ€™re reading this, dad-in-law, youâ€™re out of luck, because Iâ€™m a vault.

I agreed that the world was descending into the abyss and kept sanding.

This past Friday I returned to New York for the weekend and went to see a documentary about the artist Wayne White called â€œBeauty is Embarrassing.â€ It was an engrossing and surprisingly uplifting 90 minutes of chilly theater time, and the second time in three weeks I had gone to see a show at IFC. The other was for Mike Birbigliaâ€™s â€œSleepwalk With Me.â€ At the end of both shows I embarrassed myself by trying to exit just as the Q and A sessions with the filmâ€™s subjects were commencing.

Especially in the case of â€œSleepwalk With Me,â€ I felt a mild unease with the nature of the post-film discussion. Ira Glass and Mike Birbiglia fielded questions graciously and humorously, but were conspicuously on message â€“ they were there to spread gospels to their disciples and encourage dissemination to those in the deprived hinterlands. They actually encouraged us to use the social networks at our disposal to disseminate our praises to those outside of New York.

Beauty is Embarrassing

This smacked of desperation to me. â€œCâ€™mon, youâ€™re Ira Glass and Mike Birbiglia, do you really have to pander like buskers with hats out? Itâ€™s not becoming of superstars to beg like hobos.â€

I just got back into Cedarburg today and am prepping for class tomorrow. As we do every Sunday, my father-in-law picks me up from the airport and drives me through the main drag of Cedarburg to see whatâ€™s new. Nothing ever is, really, thatâ€™s the charm of the city. Itâ€™s actually kind of ironic that heâ€™s so bent on seeing whatâ€™s new, when in fact heâ€™s actually trying to reinforce how not new everything is.

Well, actually one thing is new every week: the movie showing at the one-screen, second-run theater in town, the Rivoli. Itâ€™s usually something that plays well with families. Maybe an â€œAlvin and the Chipmunk, the Squeakquel,â€ or a Pixar movie. This week itâ€™s â€œThe Amazing Spider Man.â€ I hadnâ€™t even recalled another Spider Man being made â€“ it must have gotten lost in my mind with all the Tobey Maguire sequences and the whole â€œAfraid of the Darkâ€ fiasco.

We circled the town one more time, detouring by the fire station to see a new truck that heâ€™s showed me each of my last four visits, before we arrived safely at the homestead. At home I spread out in the living room floor like a fat Labrador to prepare for class. But only before procrastinating with some Art Fag City gossip and looking up box office receipts for some recent motion pictures.